“Besides, it is not so. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. "Will that do?" he added, returning it.
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